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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22784530">scenes from an italian restaurant</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/janewestin/pseuds/janewestin'>janewestin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>molliverse [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Late Night (2019), The Devil Wears Prada (2006)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, F/F, Miranda POV, Mirandy, One Shot, short n not so sweet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 16:41:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>671</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22784530</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/janewestin/pseuds/janewestin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"A doppelganger, her psyche frantically assures her, even as her cogent mind confirms that the woman at the corner table is, in fact, Andrea."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs, andrea sachs/katherine newbury</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>molliverse [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638025</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>199</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>scenes from an italian restaurant</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s not just modern but <em> hideously </em> so, all wrought iron and cement and not a tablecloth in sight. Irv fancies himself a millennial these days, apparently. Odious little man. </p><p> </p><p>“Priestly,” Miranda tells the infant at the hostess stand. Aubergine lips and cheap lash extensions; a pink streak in her hair. She taps at an iPad with one matte-black nail. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t see you,” she says flatly.</p><p> </p><p>Miranda draws herself up, indignant. “I—”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, no, wait.” Another tap. “Okay, great, have a seat and we’ll call you when your table is ready.” </p><p> </p><p><em> Have a seat </em>. As though she was just anybody. </p><p> </p><p>“Miranda.” Irv’s voice from behind her. He’s wearing a bewildering combination of pinstripes and tartan, further cementing the impression of midlife crisis. </p><p> </p><p>“Irv.” Miranda infuses her tone with contempt. “Your choices never fail to surprise me.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s unfazed. “Oh, that I too could afford complacency in the face of stagnation,” he says, handing her a manila envelope stuffed to bursting. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re resorting to hard copies.” She takes it. “You were saying something about stagnation?”</p><p> </p><p>“Ha ha.” He scowls. “You’re being sued, remember?”</p><p> </p><p>Miranda stiffens. It’s been <em> months </em> ; that damned attorney should have resolved it by now. “And why, pray tell, is this coming from <em> you </em>?”</p><p> </p><p>“Did you forget that I own—” </p><p> </p><p>“Priestly,” the bored hostess says, interrupting. “This way.”</p><p> </p><p>That the restaurant is this crowded is inexplicable, given that the wine list appears to be on a chalkboard. She feels a twinge in her lower back, pain in the soles of her feet as she walks. No Jimmy Choos here: she spies Doc Martens and thick-soled white sneakers and, horrifyingly, a pair of flip-flops. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, sorry,” mutters a pair of cargo pants, as he slides his chair back and very nearly catches her in the stomach. She side-steps, almost turning her ankle, and Irv grabs her arm, which makes her turn <em> just </em> slightly to the left, not in the direction they’d been headed at all, and—</p><p> </p><p>Her blood turns to ice. </p><p> </p><p>The clank and murmur of the diners fades into a staticky buzz. Darkness smudges her peripheral vision. <em> A doppelgänger, </em> her psyche frantically assures her, even as her cogent mind confirms that the woman at the corner table is, in fact, Andrea.</p><p> </p><p>Side by side at the island in Miranda’s kitchen, the memory drenched in despair. The heat of Andrea’s palm, her fingers curling fervently around Miranda’s. <em> I have an idea </em>, she’d said. </p><p> </p><p>Weeks, after that. Tasks that could have been accomplished with phone calls, with emails. Andrea on Miranda’s couch at ten o’clock at night, outsized glasses reflecting account balances. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Go to bed. I’ll let myself out. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Andrea asleep in the study, painted in monochrome by the dim light of early morning. Miranda should have been surprised. She realized she’d forgotten to be careful. </p><p> </p><p>And that last horrible night. <em> I like you, Miranda </em>. Enormous eyes luminous: first with ardor, then with anguish. Miranda remembers, most of all, the catch of Andrea’s lower lip between her teeth. She might have drawn blood. </p><p> </p><p>There’s a hand tangled in Andrea’s waterfall of hair, but it is not Miranda’s. </p><p> </p><p>There are lips pressed to Andrea’s long pale throat, but Miranda feels no warmth against her mouth. </p><p> </p><p>She’s smiling—no, laughing. Tilting her head. Lashes lift, and Miranda’s heart plummets.</p><p> </p><p>The smile vanishes. </p><p> </p><p><em> You don’t know that </em>, Andrea had said, abruptly enervated, and Miranda feels, now, the same violent vertigo. </p><p> </p><p>From across the room, Andrea’s lips part. Her hand on the table curls in on itself. The woman beside her pulls away. It takes an uncharacteristic moment for Miranda to place her. </p><p> </p><p>Katherine Newbury needs no such time. Recognition, realization, acknowledgement flash across her expression faster than Miranda can tear her gaze from Andrea’s. </p><p> </p><p>“Miranda.” Irv, impatient. “What are you—” He’s to her right, and then he’s behind her. “<em> Miranda!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Cool air on her face. Roy is nowhere to be seen. She fumbles for her phone, nearly drops it. If she isn't careful, she will remember precisely the way Andrea’s hand had fit in hers. </p>
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